


nobody can be uncheered with a balloon

by Bookworm101103



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abstract, Balloons, English Assessment, Fiction, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, POV Original Character, and i really just wanted to post something?, but I don't know how to do that here sooooo, eh, get this out of my system, hope you enjoy!, some of the words were in color, this was for an english assignment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:47:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26457409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookworm101103/pseuds/Bookworm101103
Summary: ‘I've learnt almost everything from the books I've read…books that challenge ideas, systems and established ways ofthinking. These books are invitations to think beyond our own experience, showing us a larger world.’ - Ramona Koval





	nobody can be uncheered with a balloon

It starts with a little comment, harmless and meaningless.

  
“I don’t get you.”

  
Today’s annoyance is a man in a shirt the colour of wet sand. She’s almost finished the carcass of her balloon today, hollow bones on display for all to see. Two months of work has gone into this moment, two months of blood, sweat and tears.

  
She ignores him, refusing to give the intruder to her haven the satisfaction of her attention.

  
“It looks…interesting,” Wet-Sand says finally in an attempt to start a conversation. “What are you even making?”

  
She continues to ignore him, and his plastic smile falters. There was a reason that she choose this secluded jut of land, so far away from their village in the clouds. From here, you could only just make out the bright-roofed houses and businesses perched so precariously the columns of land that jutted up from the dark abyss beneath them like teeth.

  
People annoyed her. Constantly.

  
Still ignoring him, she begins wielding the skin over the balloon’s metallic skeleton. For some unknown reason, Wet - Sand stays after her blatant dismissal and continues talking to her.

  
“I mean,” he elaborates, “You work just as much on your balloons as everyone else, you put in all this effort and what?”. Turning, his unseeing eyes appraise every one of her half-finished balloons cluttering up the floor.

  
He gestured vaguely back in the direction of their home. Towards the hundreds of thousands of balloons, all shapes, sizes and colours rising into the sky. The sight always reminded her of rapture, if the angels coming for the believers had wings the colour of gold and blood, honeycomb, algae and raw meat shot through with electric teal, horrifying and glorious.

  
Everyone’s got their favourite angel. A balloon that means something to them, more than the two-faced rats they race the streets with. More than the pigs and men next door. More than the inevitable fact that they’re trapped in a caucus race no-one will ever win. It means something special to them.

  
Something others can’t understand.

  
Her balloons are always just black. Sometimes, if she’s in a particular mood she’ll put a skull on the side. Switch it up a little.

  
“Our balloons are supposed to lift people!” declares Wet-Sand. “They’re supposed to be bright and fun but you and the things you make…”

  
“I’m curious,” he concludes weakly, “Do you even have any idea what you’re doing?”.

  
In response, she makes eye contact and pulls a red lever off to the side. A startled hush falls over him as the engine inside the balloon lets out a throaty, beastly roar as the rocket on the back ignites. Smoke quickly filled the small area as with one final growl her balloon shoots forward, straight off the cliff into the darkness below. The chain attached followed close behind.

  
There was silence for a few moments before Wet-Sand starts laughing, the sound pouring from his lips like a waterfall. “That was beautiful!” he cackles, wiping tears from his eyes. He slaps her on the back, another uncontrollable laugh slipping from his throat in the process. “Right over the edge, like a stone!” he hoots.  
Seemingly satisfied with what he’s seen, Wet-Sand turns back towards the village. “You’re crazy.” he calls over his shoulder as he leaves.

  
She doesn’t hear him, too trapped in her own little world as a small smile makes itself known on her face.

  
“Perfect.” She whispers to herself.

  
“Perfect”

  
And

  
Deep

  
Down

  
Below

  
In

  
The

  
d a r k n e s s . . .

  
Her balloon hovers lazily over the marshy floor, waiting.

  
Waiting.

  
Wait-

  
A hand shoots up from beneath the ground clawing desperately for the chain above them. Fingers make contact and they grip it tight, knuckles white with the force. The balloon, a pipe-dream failure of a lunatic, begins to rise from the darkness dragging from the sludge a woman gasping for air.

  
And

  
as

  
they

E  
S  
I  
R

The woman, blind and shivering, looks up as a tendril of sunlight breaks through the darkness below for the first time in too long.

  
Her breath catches in her throat.

  
Because there above her, freeing her from the silent, empty hell below was an angel,

  
with wings the colour of night.


End file.
